Caleb flinches as soon as he feels that hurt, and he looks down. "No, fuck, Michael—" he tries, but then Michael's speaking, voice propelled by the sting of Caleb's words.
"I'm sorry," he insists. "I didn't mean it like that. I-I'm just— fuck." He pushes the tire over so it lays flat, then sits on it in a heavy slump, fingers buried in his hair until it gets caught on the braid. "Everything feels so sharp right now," he continues, and he hates how this wrong voice sounds with the sob trying to come through. "Your worry hurts."
That's not right, either. It's so hard to explain it, especially because, right now, in this girl-shaped body, even his ability feels slightly different. He feels too full, like his skin might rip open from the pressure. It's like his ability stayed Caleb-shaped, but his body didn't, and now it's like a water balloon with too much water inside of it. How is he supposed to make room for other people's emotions when he can barely contain his own?
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"I'm sorry," he insists. "I didn't mean it like that. I-I'm just— fuck." He pushes the tire over so it lays flat, then sits on it in a heavy slump, fingers buried in his hair until it gets caught on the braid. "Everything feels so sharp right now," he continues, and he hates how this wrong voice sounds with the sob trying to come through. "Your worry hurts."
That's not right, either. It's so hard to explain it, especially because, right now, in this girl-shaped body, even his ability feels slightly different. He feels too full, like his skin might rip open from the pressure. It's like his ability stayed Caleb-shaped, but his body didn't, and now it's like a water balloon with too much water inside of it. How is he supposed to make room for other people's emotions when he can barely contain his own?